Boys Will Be Boys
David CHura
Each morning, mad at God’s clumsy hand
he plucks his eyebrows clean
to paint perpetual surprise,
then shapes his raven hair
like sculptor’s clay:
some days, ocean’s rippled shore,
others, brushed back, shining
black as shoeshine’s best,
or like today, an African queen’s
high piled crown,
and in this Ethiope’s ear,
a silver crescent.
He hits the street,
ready to dance his long, lithe limbs
into whatever music he hears:
catcalls, whistles, fag, yo mama,
chorus to his ancestor’s words:
“I, too, sing America.”
